


'Cause You're Just a Man

by scarletjuliet



Series: Off to the Races [2]
Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: Angst, Coming Out, Feminization, Infidelity, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Panic Attacks, Vomiting, a happy ending?? sort of, implied period-typical homophobia, its only implied but still, kind of some weird kink feels, okay not really but that is an important component of the subject matter, sequel to Off to the Races!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-25
Updated: 2020-01-25
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:42:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22400515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scarletjuliet/pseuds/scarletjuliet
Summary: Roger's never learnt to think about things before he does them. And Brian loves like he’s throwing stones into a lake—the surface rippling with phantom romance long after the pebble has sunk below.Roger tries to reconcile he and Brian's broken love affair with their post-tour world.
Relationships: Brian May/Roger Taylor
Series: Off to the Races [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1612225
Comments: 10
Kudos: 41





	'Cause You're Just a Man

**Author's Note:**

> It's been over a year since I published my first Queen fic, _Off to the Races_ , and I've been saying that a sequel is gonna happen for just as long. Unfortunately, since Joger/Dealor owns my entire heart and soul I've not really been motivated to write a sequel to a Maylor fic until now...! 
> 
> Real heckin mad at my past self for not being anal about the historical accuracy of any of the original fic LITERALLY there is no indication of dates or anything and I had very little to go by when writing a more historically aware follow up asdfghjkl... but I've made a call that this takes place after the A Night At The Opera tour, in 1976. 
> 
> I highkey suck at writing anything that a) is long and b) has a decisively happy ending so enjoy this fic what is/has neither!!

.

Their plane touches down at Heathrow on Sunday night and Roger feels absolutely numb inside even with the shuddering turbulence.

He’s been riding a high for the last five months, living exactly like the rock ‘n’ roll star he has become. Spending it big on booze and drugs, and pink lingerie. His eyes flicker away from the window towards the aisle, tiredly. Beside him, Freddie is unbuckling his seatbelt and stretching.

He goes through the motions. Feels the awful heat of his old flame grow nearer as he stumbles out of his seat. Brian passes him his bag with an air of awkward reluctance, not meeting his eyes. Roger takes it and at the brief brush of their index fingers a black hole opens inside of him.

They’ve stopped speaking. To the other band members, to their management, they look bitter and stubborn. Roger feels his mouth grow dry at every withering look John shoots his way, tongue unable to form an explanation. That he’s not as petty as he seems.

That actually, he thinks he might be dying.

There is a small comfort, he considers, as they cross the linoleum airport floor. If Brian did look at him, Roger is afraid he might be able to see every inch of his soul laid bare and bleeding.

It’s a blessing that he continues to avoid doing so.

.

By the Asia leg of the tour Roger had started leaving lace between the sheets of hotel beds. Bras, panties, stockings; in Perth he abandoned three red dresses crumpled in a pile on the floor of the wardrobe. The stilettos are in a bathtub in Osaka and the pink kitten heels in Adelaide.

All he has left are three tubes of lipstick, all shades of red. He stares hard at the beer in front of him and then lifts it to his lips absently. They’re hidden in his pillowcase because he is afraid Freddie will have more questions than Roger cares to answer if he finds them.

Freddie slips into the chair across from Roger, letting the four shots he’s carrying clatter onto the table. “Drink up, dear,” he commands, picking up one for himself and gesturing vaguely with his other hand.

Roger isn’t stupid. He knows why Freddie has insisted they come here, knows his friend is worried about the way he mopes about their flat even though he can’t quite wheedle out of Roger what the matter is exactly.

He feels around inside himself and finds he doesn’t really want to resist Freddie’s attempts to hype him up. He takes his own shot, downing what he vaguely registers is tequila. Then, before Freddie even gets a chance to drink his first he moves onto the second, shooting that back, and considers only briefly before reaching out for the third.

Freddie swats his hand away. “Get off, you swine!” he complains loudly. “How on earth am I going to keep up?”

Roger lets out a weak splutter of laughter and his hand curls around his half-finished beer once more. One of the lipsticks, he thinks, is a dark, dark red, like pomegranate seeds or maybe red velvet cake or perhaps New York City. That’s where he still remembers seeing it streaked in an obscene scarlet ring around Brian’s cock, on the edge of a glass of red wine. He thinks he can still feel the carpet burn on his knees.

His glass is empty. Something in him is lifting a little and he stands. His balance is off just enough that he knows he’s tipsy, and he looks down at Freddie, who is smirking.

“See a conquest?” he asks, half joking, and Roger licks his lips. He hadn’t even been considering it but now that Freddie’s made the suggestion, he recognizes the itch inside him that might be satisfied with meaningless sex.

He looks around the bar, eyes landing on each female face within sight in turn. He didn’t used to be so cocky as to presume anyone he picked at a glance would be on board but of course he’s noticed that lately, he tends to get more yes’s than no’s. Especially if the woman recognizes he’s in a band.

“Maybe the blonde,” he muses to Freddie. The woman in question is at the bar with a couple of friends.

Freddie grins at Roger, punching him lightly in the back. “Go!”

Roger barks out a laugh and stumbles forward, catching himself and managing to make the rest of the walk over sufficiently confident and poised. He reaches the three women and offers to buy them drinks and soon he and the one he has his eye on have struck up something of a conversation.

But his traitorous mind wanders. Another of his lipsticks, he absently thinks, is a more muted mid-tone, with a golden sheen like the blood orange gin the woman beside him is drinking. He wore it almost exclusively with black lingerie because he was not confident enough in his colour coordination to try anything riskier. In his mind, now, he sees it staining the crisp white bedsheets of the hotel in Cincinnati. Feels it smearing all over his chin with his face pressed into the mattress as Brian takes him from behind.

Waxy. He shivers, arousal pooling in his groin. He leans in closer to the woman, who is speaking to him, telling him about how she’s suffered a recent breakup and is out tonight to get over him.

Me too, is what Roger almost says, but instead he comes out with a smooth, “Could I help with that?”

It turns out he can. It turns out Freddie is okay being left alone at the bar and it turns out she’s okay with drinking white wine out of ceramic mugs. Roger curses that there is not a single wine glass in their flat that is clean but it isn’t as though they spend much time exchanging pleasantries in the kitchen anyway.

Roger swears he understands the importance of foreplay, but as the two of them lie on his unmade bed, his middle and ring fingers sliding in and out of her slowly, he feels this odd impatience washing over him. Each time his index finger brushes her clit she moans, and he _swears_ he likes the noise, but as soon as he feels it is reasonable he is pulling away, sliding off the bed in search of a rubber.

There are none in his bedside drawer and he curses. Leaves her rubbing her clit on his bed while he traipses into Freddie’s room to see if his flatmate has any. Freddie—thank fuck—of course he does, and Roger lets the relief wash over him as he walks past the wall length mirror on the way out—

His mistake is stopping when he catches his reflection. Naked, he is dressed in nothing but the scarlet smear that blurs the lines of his lips.

It must be from his one night stand but he trembles as he leans in closer because it is so very similar to the shade of his third lipstick. It’s Coca-Cola red, red like fire engines, red like sex itself and yet Roger’s cock is rapidly losing interest as horror fills the pit in his stomach.

Memories rush at him with headlights on full. Whiskey orange bathroom lights in Glasgow, big hands firm on his hips. Hot searing pleasure torn from somewhere deep inside of him.

Brian smudged with red just as in Roger’s own reflection, on his lips, neck and thighs.

.

Her name is Christine Mullen, and what hurts the most is that Roger already vaguely knows her.

He’s pretty sure she was Jo’s flatmate, back when he and Jo had a thing. She and Brian had met before, and Roger had had no clue they were still in contact – but, well. They were clearly close enough that Brian had saw fit to fly her out to their final Santa Monica show.

Roger’s been in the recording studio for about ten minutes and he’s already lit his first cigarette. Feels calm wash over his jittery nerves as he takes a drag. He’s leaning back on the couch, watching the smoke puff out of his mouth and drift upwards. Only Mike and John have arrived besides he and Freddie, and Roger watches the former tinkering with the mixing console. 

Brian isn’t late per se, but the fact he is the final member to arrive gives Roger’s stomach plenty of time to churn with anticipation. When he does stride in, he doesn’t seem as uncomfortable as Roger feels. He shoots everyone greetings, before he glances over to Roger.

Their eyes meet and Brian gives him a small, terse smile. Roger feels his discomfort dissipate, if only a little. It seems that Brian’s latest tactic is civility, and honestly, Roger is on board with that at this point. There’s nothing in this world he loves more than his band and he’s willing to set aside even this level of friction for the sake of its continuance.

To his credit, Roger does a very good job at pretending that this small improvement in he and Brian’s relationship is enough for his own emotional stability throughout most of the goddamn recording session. It’s like it is when he rolls over in bed and feels the plastic of the lipstick tubes against his cheek—he takes in the hard press of the cylinders through the cotton pillowcase and doesn’t think about why he feels it.

But he thinks there might be something deep inside him crying, screaming in agony every time he glances in Brian’s direction – it sounds so far away he can barely make it out, but it’s definitely there. Mascara running down its cheeks. _Her_ cheeks. Wobbling in stilettos, though he was sure he left those in Osaka. In the bathtub, remember? He presses the heels of his hands to his eyes.

He thinks about bathtubs, thinks about sitting in them and shaving the hair off his legs. Thinks about Brian’s eyes on him, long fingers wrapped around the neck of a bottle of Dom Perignon, cross legged on the bathroom floor.

“Rog?” Freddie elbows him. Of course someone has noticed Roger’s contributions have run dry, though Roger himself hasn’t noticed that he’s got his head in his hands, hair falling around his face. 

“Mm,” says Roger, looking up again. He can feel lace against his skin, lashes fluttering against bedsheets, hands on the smooth insides of his thighs and drool on his chin.

He can feel the sting of mascara bleeding into his eyes even though he hasn’t worn any for months.

He realizes suddenly that what _really_ hurts the most is that Brian can’t even see the rivulets of black slipping salty over his lips.

.

Roger stirs lazily out of his partial unconsciousness when the door knocks, the sound echoing through the flat. The television is still buzzing in front of him—he can’t remember what he was watching but now it looks like it might be _Doctor Who_ —as he stands up and pads, bare-footed across the carpet, to investigate.

He wonders if maybe Mary has kicked Freddie out of her place—he was meant to be spending the night there. Really, he should just move in with her for good. God knows they’re making too much money to still be stuck in their dingy shared flat. Roger considers whether Freddie’s concerned glances have something to do with their stagnating living situation.

It’s a bewildering time for anyone else to be at their door, at any rate—probably nearly eleven o’clock at night. Slightly drowsy, Roger reaches for the door handle, twisting it unlocked and pulling it open. 

Feels his heart drop into his stomach when he sees that it’s Brian standing there.

He blinks. Wonders, in his sleepiness, if he’s fallen into one of his secret, twisted, lip gloss daydreams.

Brian looks profoundly awkward, shifting his weight, and when he opens his mouth a nervous “Er—hello,” slips out.

“Hello,” says Roger as an automatic courtesy, but he’s in too much shock to formulate anything else all that quickly. “I—hello?” he repeats, dumbly. 

“Sorry, sorry,” Brian blurts, “I didn’t know if you’d be awake, or.”

Roger wonders if he should let Brian in. That’d be his normal instinct to remedy a broken social interaction, but right now he’s completely nonplussed. He chooses to swallow his fluttery schoolgirl heartbeat, though it feels like shards of glass in his throat, and instead asks, “What on earth are you doing here at half eleven?” 

“You know,” says Brian, carefully, “I was just… in the area.”

Roger slips a hand into the neck of his t-shirt, not knowing what to do with it since it isn’t holding the door open. “…and?” he finally prompts, breaking the expectant silence.

Brian looks even tenser at this. Opens and closes his mouth a few times as if to try and find a way to skirt around the subject. Eventually offers a defeated, “we’re. We’re pretty shit at… this, you know, Rog? Maybe we could just… it was so much easier when…”

Roger holds Brian’s searching gaze steadily. Watches his tongue flickering out to absently moisten his lips. The movements are too small to be noticeable to someone who isn’t really watching, but Roger is nothing if not fucking fixated. Just like he always has been. Fuck. “Yea, Bri?” 

Brian takes a breath. “I… miss you,” he stammers.

“Miss fucking me?” says Roger, and his voice sounds hard even to his ears. Brian’s head whips around, as though someone might be listening behind him. Then exhales, suddenly and shakily. 

“Yeah, that uh. Is just about it.”

Roger likes the idea. Roger’s dreamed of this before, about Brian, standing with two buttons of his shirt undone at his front door.

He leans in just slightly more, angling his body out of the entranceway.

It’s enough of an invitation for Brian, who steps forward and places one big, firm hand on Roger’s waist. Roger almost gasps at the sensation, a familiar heat stirring inside at the touch.

It swells darkly when Brian takes advantage of his imbalance to sweep him inside. A wooden umbrella rack rattles when Roger’s legs stumble into it. He can’t help the moan that slips out when he hits the wall. His cock throbs with the contact. 

He melts when Brian uses one hand splayed across his back to push him flush against his chest, the other hand sliding down to grip Roger’s bum. Their breath collides in the space between them. Brian’s lashes dip over his heated gaze and Roger is practically trembling as he asks, “You want me to suck your cock? Or,” he inhales, hands ghosting over—oh _fuck_ , Brian’s shoulders are so broad they seem endless, “Or would you like to fuck me into my mattress?”

Brian smiles, slowly. “God, I’ve missed you,” he says, in a voice so low Roger’s limbs are in puddles on the floor, “I’ll do whatever you’ll let me, princess.” He takes a shaky breath, and adds, as he twists Roger’s hair around one long index finger, “Fuck, and I’ve missed seeing this in hair ribbons.”

Roger feels every part of his body become cold in an instant.

He jerks his face away from Brian’s and the other man drops the strand of hair, staring at Roger with startled eyes. Takes a step back. “Roger?”

Roger can’t meet Brian’s eyes. Heavy dread is creeping over his body. “It’s late,” he says. Scrabbles around in his chest for something else to say. It hits him then that he is, so to speak, the other woman—but the thought of the sticky touch of carmine lipstick makes his stomach turn. He can’t figure out what it is that Brian really wants from him.

Roger is pretty sure he himself wants more than hair ribbons.

“It’s late?” Brian repeats, quietly.

“It’s late,” Roger can’t figure out how to articulate his thoughts, and it’s all he can do to add, “at night.”

When there is no response, he forces out a “Go home. To Chrissie.”

Brian looks stung, he looks despairing, he looks so fuckable that Roger almost gives up and kisses him and drags him inside after all. “Rog,” Brian softly says, “I just—I’m sorry, if I made you uncomfortable, I—”

“It’s late, Bri.” Roger says.

Brian leaves. Roger feels the weight of Ante Meridiem on his chest all goddamn night.

.

“God, Fred, just move in with her already,” Roger offhandedly says, pouring red wine into the first glass, “You’re there all the goddamn time anyway.”

“And leave you, Rog, dear? Who would open tins for you?”

The wine bottle clinks against the second glass. Roger’s mouth twitches with amusement, though he is quite wary of Freddie’s real reason for staying. “Wanker.”

Freddie accepts the glass Roger hands him, shifting his hair out of his eyes with a flick of his head and grinning. “Oh, you _know_ you’d not be able to get by without me.”

Roger scoffs. “You can’t even boil eggs.”

“I can fry them!”

Roger grins as he sits on the couch across from Freddie, lifting his glass to his lips. He considers if he wants to press the issue, this time around. He’s been making comments for months now but he thinks maybe it’s finally time to let Freddie know that he’s okay to leave Roger. So, he continues, “How long have you been together now? Five years?”

Freddie neither confirms nor denies from behind his wine glass. Roger goes on, “Jesus Fred, and yet the poor woman _still_ has to borrow you from me every other night.”

When Freddie lowers the glass, Roger can finally see the tiredness in his eyes. “One might think you were trying to get rid of me!” he jokes, smile a little jaded.

Roger wonders if it genuinely sounds like that and backtracks slightly. “Of course not, bloody hell. I just…” he trails off, realizing he’s about to get actually sincere about this, and then commits. “I just don’t want you to feel like you need to stick around, for me. I don’t… need to be looked after.”

Freddie blinks, and Roger holds his breath. “I know,” Freddie says after a few moments have passed, “You’re a grown man. But you’ve been in a slump for a long while since tour, darling. If you don’t want to discuss it, that’s fine. I just don’t want you to feel alone.”

“That’s what I mean,” interjects Roger, staring down at his glass of wine, “I can handle things on my own. It’s okay.”

Freddie pauses for a long while, and then takes a sip of wine, as though he’s prolonging how long he can acceptably not respond. Then, taking a deep breath, he says, “That’s not the only reason I don’t… want to move in with Mary.”

Roger stares, not knowing quite what to say beyond a curious, “Oh?”

Freddie can’t quite meet Roger’s eyes when he says, “I think…” taking another deep breath, “I might be, gay.”

“Oh,” Roger exhales. It makes… a lot of sense, actually. It’s not as though Roger has never suspected—they’d been on tour together, for god’s sake, even if Roger had been increasingly preoccupied for most of it. “Oh. Yeah,” and then, after only a moment’s hesitation, “Me too.”

If he’d actually given it some thought, maybe he wouldn’t have let it slip out like that, in that tense moment. But Freddie’s eyes snap up to his, and Roger feels some of the tension dissipate with that, so maybe he’s made a good decision after all. “Oh, dear,” Freddie says softly, “Is that… what your slump is about?”

“Yeah,” says Roger after only a short pause, because in the moment, it seems easier than saying ‘no’. 

Freddie’s gaze flickers with pain and sympathy, and Roger swallows, adding, “So… are you going to tell Mary?”

“Of course,” says Freddie, brows furrowing, but he seems to be looking very far into the distance. “But I. I still, I love her, you know?”

“Yeah,” says Roger, watching Freddie carefully, “Well. I still like women too, I think. I mean.”

But Freddie doesn’t seem comforted. “Yes. I… I don’t know.”

Roger doesn’t know exactly why it’s suddenly become so much easier to mediate the distance between the two of them, but soon he’s sat on Freddie’s couch with his head lolling on his shoulder. Chucking back the last of his wine.

“Daft queers, the both of us,” says Freddie.

Roger lifts the empty glass to clink against his friend’s.

.

Roger can hear the voices as he comes to on the cold bathroom floor. His skin is hot, so very hot, and he presses his hands flat against the linoleum, blinking slowly.

“Look, Fred, don’t worry. I’ll take him.”

His head may feel like it’s filled with television static, but Roger is pretty sure by ‘him’ Brian means Roger. His throat burns with acid and he sits up, knocking his shoulder on the bowl of the toilet. He presses the back of his hand against his left eye. He feels drowsy. The toilet is filled with his vomit.

“Don’t be ridiculous Brian, we can’t just stay – ”

“I’ll get him home, I’ll be back within half an hour.”

“Did you _see_ him?” Freddie cries, incredulous. He notices Roger’s sat up and his face softens, “Rog? How do you feel, dear?”

Roger can’t get any words out before his stomach is lurching. He turns, gripping onto the toilet seat, and is sick once more. Almost immediately he feels calloused fingers, warm and firm, pulling his hair back out of his face. They’re John’s, he realizes once it’s over and he’s spitting out bile, his head spinning. John isn’t one for physicality but Roger leans into his touch as he gently drags back strands from the front, fingertips brushing Roger’s temples.

Then there’s a feminine voice. “Freddie’s right, Bri. Let’s all just call it a night.”

Chrissie. Roger feels like he’s made of porcelain. John lets go of his hair as he slowly shifts around to face the others, who are gathered around concernedly just outside the toilet stall. He imagines the five of them crammed into Brian’s car and feels the nausea double.

“It’s fine,” he rasps, shutting the lid on the toilet. He begins to stand, John warily hovering next to him, “I’ll call a cab.”

“I’ll take you home,” Brian insists.

Roger lets his eyelids flutter closed for a moment. He’s not sure what he feels – something flickering between terror and a strange, warm relief. Either way, John is weighing in perhaps knowingly, finally taking Brian’s side, and soon Roger is being led through the club and bundled into the back seat of the car.

In the quiet and the gloom, streetlights flickering past, Roger can still feel his heart thudding. Every so often his body trembles with the aftershocks. He feels still coiled, feels like a teacup rattling on a saucer every time the tires hit a pothole.

He can’t remember a lot of the details, but he knows he lost it back there. Hyperventilated. Passed out. No wonder Freddie was so concerned, he thinks, grimacing.

Brian and Chrissie fill his mind, lip-locking on the dance floor, lit up in neon, and his breath hitches.

“Are you okay?” Brian asks tentatively. Staring ahead at the road. Roger looks at himself in the rear-view mirror. He looks like he’s been absolutely fucked out by the universe. Lets his head loll back on the seat and closes his eyes. When he speaks his voice is hard.

“I would have fucking died.”

There is silence for a moment. Then, “What?”

“Died, dressing up like that,” Roger says, opening his eyes. His brows are furrowed in the rear-view mirror. Soon, Brian’s are too.

His voice is acidic with sardonicism when he says, “What? From the, from the embarrassment of someone finding out?”

Roger feels like he’s been punched in the gut. Something hot and angry is stirring inside him. “No. From the strangers in the restaurant. Or in the bar. Or on the fucking street. Because people like to beat men in frocks to death, Brian.”

There is silence.

“I can’t fucking believe – ” Roger starts up again, but Brian cuts him off.

“I don’t know Roger, how was I supposed to guess you cared? You were off throwing yourself at groupies every other fucking night.” He’s angry. _Was this a mistake_ , Roger thinks, and it’s such a familiar feeling to have around Brian that he steamrolls right over it.

“Oh, so I guess I just get off on the idea of being murdered in some fucking alleyway,” he snaps.

Brian brakes at the lights, hard. But then he slumps slightly at the wheel. Roger can see his eyebrows untensing.

“Rog, I… I don’t think that.”

“You think you have the fucking right to tell me how many women I should have chatted up, as if you were oh so desperately pining. Because I don’t know, it wasn’t that bloody obvious when you wouldn’t fuck me without the mascara and heels.”

“Please stop, Roger.”

“I don’t know who you were madly in love with, Brian,” Roger spits, “but I’m pretty fucking sure it wasn’t me—”

Roger’s voice breaks. He trembles, and then he sobs.

Something in his chest is breaking down. He can feel the car starting to move again. He can feel the weight of the silence on the both of them. He can feel the tears running down his cheeks, into his mouth.

Suddenly Roger feels very small, feels more vulnerable than he has ever felt in his life before. “Brian. Brian. Brian,” near uncontrollably he babbles Brian’s name, over and over and the car is pulling over and both of his hands are pressed firmly against his eyes as though that way he could keep it all in and then there’s the shock of the cold night air as the passenger side opens.

He’s hyperventilating when Brian puts his arms around him, pulling him close. Roger turns his head to press into Brian’s shoulder despite himself. Every sob is hideous and he’s coughing and spluttering with it and the sudden tenderness of Brian’s touch only makes his whole body shudder with pain.

“Oh fuck. Oh Roger,” comes Brian’s tearful voice, “I’m so, so in love with you. Oh, fuck.”

.

Roger focuses his attention on the warmth of the mug when his hands wrap around it. He should know better than to sip, as the tea is much too hot, but he does so anyway. Burns his tongue in the process.

He’s never learnt to think about things before he does them. And Brian loves like he’s throwing stones into a lake—the surface rippling with phantom romance long after the pebble has sunk below.

Roger’s long hit rock bottom. But then Brian’s there, lowering onto the couch next to him. There’s a healthy distance between them and he’s sitting far enough forward that it’s obvious he is uncomfortable, but Roger still feels something within him calm. He taps his fingers on the ceramic, idly.

“I left the, ah. The panties and stuff, in my hotel rooms.”

Brian glances back at him, then blows on his tea gently. “Oh,” he says, not looking at Roger.

“Didn’t… feel like I’d ever need them again.”

Roger watches Brian. He can see only a sliver of his face behind his mass of curls and the room is warm light bulb yellow. He tilts his head downwards, eyes flickering for fortunes in the Earl Grey. “Never?”

Roger swallows. “I was _your_ girl, Bri.”

“Did you… like being my girl?”

Roger inhales sharply. His head dizzies and he brings the mug to his lips. Then, once it is lowered, he says, “I loved being your girl. Brian, I… but I wanted to be your man.”

Brian turns at that, slowly, cautiously. Roger watches his eyes, flickering with apprehension, watches him taking Roger's mug, setting it and his with an ungraceful clatter on the coffee table. When he takes Roger’s hand Roger can feel that he is trembling. He stares down at Brian’s long fingers, wrapped around his.

“It’s,” says Brian, as though he’s choking, “I want—”

“I know,” Roger says.

“I wish—”

“I know,” Roger’s eyes sting from dried tears.

Brian runs his thumb along Roger’s jawline, fingers sliding into Roger’s hair. Roger closes his eyes. When he feels the warm pressure of Brian’s lips against his, he kisses back like he’s coming home.

Brian pulls away and then leans down to press his face into the crook of Roger’s neck. Roger opens his eyes and stares at the ceiling.

He hopes the others have the sense to call a cab. He thinks he and Brian might not be moving from this couch until the sun rises tomorrow.

.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope this provided, well. Maybe not closure but a better idea of the aftermath of _Off to the Races_...
> 
> Thanks for reading!! <3


End file.
